Disclaimer – Still don't own…..dammit!
Sherlock and Greg froze on the stairs. Down in the hallway Mrs Hudson screamed John's name in fear.
Afraid that he may have come too late, Sherlock turned the handle – the door was locked. Pulling a key from his pocket he tried again, but once again the door wouldn't budge.
"He fitted bolts to the door, soon after…"
Neither man was listening. After trying to force the door open with no success, Sherlock hammered on the wood with his fist.
"John!" he yelled, not really expecting an answer. "JOHN!" Leaning his forehead against the door, his hands gripped the door frame.
"I'll get some back up here" Greg stepped away and pulled out his mobile. A hushed conversation, and confirmation of the address, then, "Ambulance on its way, and one of my team will bring over an Enforcer to get this door open." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and squeezed gently, feeling the younger man shake as tears coursed down his face.
"All for nothing," he sobbed quietly, "Why, John? WHY?"
Mrs Hudson sat on the bottom stair, her hand pressed to her heart, wondering how many more shocks she would have to take this day.
An eerie silence hung over the house as three people waited, each enveloped in their own little capsule of space and time, all of them wishing they had done things differently.
The sound of a bolt being drawn snapped them all out of their respective stupors. A second bolt was drawn, and slowly, ever so slowly, the door of flat 221B opened.
Gun held loosely in his hand, Captain John H Watson, MD, RAMC, stood staring out of red-rimmed eyes at the man outside his door.
Sherlock stared back, unable to believe the sight of the man in front of him.
Suddenly a hand shot out, grabbing the younger man by the lapel of his greatcoat, and dragging him in through the door, slamming it shut behind him and sliding the bolts home once more. Never moving his hand from Sherlock's clothing, John pressed the barrel of his service weapon against the other man's head, his clouded blue eyes staring into tear-drenched grey ones.
"Do you know what," he said carefully, his voice achingly rough from lack of use "I haven't made up my mind yet whether I should kiss you or kill you."
Sherlock stared back at him, for once unable to read his intentions in face or body.
"You bastard!" despite the emotion in the voice, the face hardly changes, the eyes continued to stare as if seeing a ghost. "You did that…..you made me watch….you fucking evil git!"
And there it was. That word. That name. The only person ever to call Sherlock that was John, his John. And the only person John ever used that name on was Sherlock, his Sherlock.
Pulling Sherlock's head down, John reached up and captured his lips, tasting the salt of both their tears as his tongue begged permission to explore. As it swept across that ridiculously girlish cupid's bow, the lips opened, and he plundered the depths of Sherlock's mouth with an eagerness borne of desperation and pain, an eagerness that was reciprocated and returned a hundred fold as the younger man wrapped his arms around the doctor and pulled him close.
It felt like hours before Sherlock finally raised his head, and looked down into John's eyes again, revelling in the love he saw there.
"But you're not gay!" he said softly, a smile on his well kissed lips.
"No, no I'm not," came the equally soft reply, "but then, you're not just any man – you're Sherlock Holmes."
"John, I…"
"Later. Tell me later. For now, I just want this…." And John reached up again to capture his mouth.
Outside the flat, Greg cancelled the ambulance, for now. And the police back up. He walked back down the stairs and sat next to Mrs Hudson, slipping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug. She leant into him, sniffing and dabbing once more at her eyes.
"My boys are home at last!"